He knew that the club had to navigate the arrays of laws and guidance that governed the written world outside, and he didn't know much about it. He decided to query the clerk at the next opportunity.
He didn't know much of his readership and didn't particularly need to know. Engagement and interaction were selective efforts, one might say, but in reality it didn't fit well in a colorless domain.
The clerk told him one day that the criticisms arrived. They were a stack of about two dozen packages, neatly wrapped, containing correspondence and scraps of notepaper. Our writer perused it over a couple of hours then handed the stack back to the clerk.
The criticisms slowed his writing process somewhat. Now there lingered extra material that clouded the flow of written thought. Our writer didn't mind and took it as an opportunity to engage the view outside his window.
It seemed the writer only lived but two or three moments of everyday. For the remainder, he was alive but it didn't seem like life. It was like his work; it performed automatically.
The writer's restricted existence wasn't bothersome, either.
YOU ARE READING
It pays to write
Historia CortaMy efforts at resuming creative writing as a serious hobby. The book is still under edits but published for reader engagement.
